Chances
by thecouchcarrot
Summary: 2-part Dean/Cas AU: Dean is a university student, and Cas is a grad student teaching a course. Dean makes an unfavorable impression  like always, and the two meet again over a decade later. By POPULAR DEMAND, now featuring PART 3, and actually working!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _Hello my delightful ducklings! Instead of throwing bits of bread at you, I come bearing more fic. But first, items of business concerning the canon of the show:_

_1) . CAS. CAS NOOOOOOO. CAS YOU HAVE MARTYRED YOURSELF, THIS IS THE RITE OF INITIATION OF THE WINCHESTER CLAN AND NOW YOU ARE A TRUE WINCHESTER. CAAAAAAAAAAAAS._

_2) BOBBYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY. BOBBY BOBBY BOBBY BOOOOOOOBBBBBYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.  
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_That is all._

_As far as this story goes, it's just a little something I did to distract myself from the vagaries of life. It's only in two parts, so fairly brief, and the AU should be pretty easy to grasp: Dean is a university student, and Cas is a grad student teaching an introductory psych class. They meet again years later. And it's pretty different from my previous stuff, so... yeah. I wrote it entirely from Cas POV, which is not a thing that I normally do, so please review and let me know what you think. _

_But here's the sitch. On account of how this fic is already done, and on account of how I'm _so dang nice_, I've posted both parts here at the same time, for your reading pleasure. This means that I'm hoping that you will, out of the goodness of your hearts, review both parts even though they're both up. After all, mo' feedback is mo' feedback. And remember, every time you review a Dean/Cas fanfic, a tiny gay angel is born. Please, think of the baby angels!_

_P.S. Also, speaking of babies - JAREEEEEEEEEED. JARED YOU ARE NOW A FATHER. PLEEEEEEEASE JARED TELL US THE NAME OF YOUR BABY BOY SO WE CAN TAG THE PICTURES, ALSO GIVE US SOME PICTURES PLEASE, WE ARE NOT DANGEROUS AND WE WILL ONLY KIDNAP HIM FOR A LITTLE BIT. JAAAAAAREEEEEED._

_Okay, now I'm done._

_P.P.S. Oh! Also! I have a livejournal now, so if you folks are on that dealio, you can friend me there! I ain't got many friends yet. I have the same username, thecouchcarrot, so just type that in before the livejournal url and you should be golden. Thanks!  
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><p>Castiel remembers when he met Dean Winchester.<p>

It was back in his first year of grad school, when he was teaching Psych 101 for the first time. Maybe that was why he remembered; it was his first class. Later on the faces would all blur together into a indistinct mob of eager, praise-hungry students, excitable puppies jumping for attention, hands thrust in the air like alert, quivering ears.

Well, in the first few rows, anyways. The middle section was made up of languid, drowsy cats, who at the suggestion of an intriguing topic like sadism or schizophrenia might twitch their tails and sharpen their eyes momentarily; and far in the back the hung-over iguanas slumped, baseball caps pulled down over aviator sunglasses. They could not be roused by any means.

All of them rather frightened Castiel. He had no idea what he was doing.

He remembered that day too because it was a lecture on sexual attraction, which meant an hour of mixed tensions in the lecture hall. The freshmen blushed and the sophomores hung on his every word; the juniors found it passé and the few seniors in the class sat in the back or didn't come to lecture at all. Being a graduate student in psychology, Castiel had long since been stripped of any delicate modesty, but he still remembered his sheltered youth, the difficulty he'd had stammering out the names of the reproductive organs out loud. Now, he could refer to them easily with clinical neutrality, and he did so.

Then they came to the section on orientation.

"You might think that sexual orientation would be simply defined as sexual attraction to the same gender," Castiel said. "While this definition serves its purpose, in reality physical attraction is not the sole determinant of one's sexual identity. Many people also define their sexual orientation as those they are _emotionally_ attracted to, those who they fall in love with." He clicked to the next slide. "As you can see from these data tables, there are women who are attracted to both sexes but identify as homosexual, because all of their meaningful relationships are with women. And to a lesser extent, we see the same phenomenon in homosexual men."

And maybe it was a trick of memory, something he'd imagined after the fact, but Castiel thought he remembered a young man in the middle row leaning forward, his eyes not on the data table but on Castiel, his eyes wide and slightly urgent as though he'd suddenly realized he'd left the oven on.

Castiel hesitated, and then moved on. There would be time for discussion in a few slides. He clicked forward. "There is, of course, also a percentage of respondents who identified as bisexual but only responded physically to one gender." He continued on with the lecture and then concluded the section, asking if there were any questions so far.

The young man raised his hand – casual now, his hand only really half-raised, slouching back in his chair.

Castiel nodded to him. "Yes?"

He licked his lips and paused, then rolled it out casually. "What about you?"

Castiel frowned. "What do you mean?"

The boy huffed, a half-chuckle. "How do you identify?"

All eyes swiveled to Castiel.

For the first time in a long time, Castiel felt his cheeks grow hot, and sweat gathered along his hairline. "That's a rather personal question for the classroom."

It was the boy's turn to look down in discomfort. All eyes focused tightly on Castiel.

Castiel steeled himself. He had spent too much of the semester teaching these students about the virtues of venturing into the taboo and the intimate to expose himself as a hypocrite now. He took a deep breath. "But I will answer it. I am gay."

The silence in the room was deafening.

He gave the tiniest smirk. "I suppose all you straight students should drop the course. It could be catching."

They laughed loudly, the laughter of relief. Castiel could almost feel their emotions radiating at him in waves. _He's gay, and he's okay. He's one of those funny gays! He's still the same teacher, after all, even if he's into dudes._ Some of them would crow to their friends later that they'd known it all along. Some of the dumber male students looked disgruntled. Some of the brighter female students looked despondent. But all in all, a generally positive reaction.

The young man who had asked the question just stared at him with a strange look on his face, as though the next question were itching in his mouth but he couldn't bring himself to ask it.

And so Castiel, feeling naked enough for one day, moved on to the next section and didn't give him the opportunity.

…

For the next two weeks, whenever the young man came to class, he looked irritated. No, more than that – angry. He took notes with sharp, short jots of his pen and whenever his eyes met Castiel's, he glared.

Castiel couldn't help but notice him, now. Studies had proven that in a crowd of faces, humans instinctively notice the ones that look angry or menacing first, even if the rest of the crowd is perfectly happy. It was probably a leftover survival mechanism, the ability to spot one's enemies quickly, but in the modern age it simply meant that every time Castiel looked up from his notes, he saw the young man's scowl.

It disturbed him.

He didn't realize how much it disturbed him until he went to the bathroom after one particularly harrowing class and found himself clutching the sink, arms trembling, knuckles white, his knees threatening to give out. He took a deep breath and splashed some water on his face.

He was being silly. He had faced homophobia before, much worse homophobia than some perturbed stare. Certainly, his own family had acted with… well… but here. _Here_. At this liberal, educated institution Castiel been able to be miraculously free. He had begun to feel secure, had felt a certain degree of safety and acceptance. And this boy with the furious eyes and the lean muscles was disturbing all that, with his sharp edges and his clenched hands and the subtle threat of violence that hung in the air all around him.

Well, Castiel didn't have to tolerate it. Not here. Not in his own classroom. So during the next test, he noted which paper the young man slid onto the pile as he left the lecture hall.

_Dean Winchester_, the test said.

When Castiel graded the test, he did not assign a score but wrote at the top of the page, _Please come to my office hours. _

…_._

Dean slunk into Castiel's office without knocking. The door was open, but students usually knocked on the frame.

"Hey," he said, a bored flatness to his voice. "What's with my test?"

Castiel froze at his computer, his heart beating faster than he found comfortable. He composed himself, and swiveled his chair to face his student. "Hello, Dean. Please have a seat."

Dean sat down with a huff, the test hanging loosely from one hand. Up close his features looked more boyish, more delicate, less thuggish. Castiel relaxed a little.

"Did I fail or something?" Dean asked, his brows furrowing. "Cuz you marked which ones I had wrong, and… I don't have that many wrong."

"Your test score is remarkably average," Castiel said. "I simply wanted you to come here so that I could speak to you in private. Would you mind closing the door?"

Dean stiffened in his chair, and his eyes took on that hard edge again. "I'd rather not."

So be it. Castiel plowed ahead. "I've noticed that your attitude in class has been particularly hostile as of late. I'd like to know if there's an explanation for your behavior. Something in your life outside of class that is bothering you?"

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. "Maybe I've just always been hostile. This is college, you know. Not everyone enjoys Monday morning class. Sorry if I'm not _enthusiastic_ enough for you."

Castiel's mouth tightened. "No, I've definitely noticed a change recently. Specifically… since I said that I was gay. Is there anything you want to say to me, Dean?"

Dean still glared, but defensively now. He swallowed. "What would I have to say to _you_?" he snapped.

And maybe it was that last insolence that broke the camel's back, but suddenly, Castiel had had enough.

He stood up, walked past Dean to the door, and slowly closed it. He returned to his desk, but did not sit down. He stood, and looked at Dean.

Dean's hands tightened on his knees, and they locked eyes.

"Dean Winchester," he said quietly, in a low, hard voice. "I don't care if you hate me, or if you hate fags, or if you think God hates fags. You have that right. But I am your _professor_, and you will show me your respect, or I will remove you from the class."

Dean stayed completely silent, and completely still. Unblinking.

"You have the right to your opinion, and I have the right to feel safe in my work environment," Castiel said. "Is that understood?"

Dean nodded.

"Good." The last word came out as a growl. Castiel walked to his chair and turned it towards his computer, signaling his dismissal of Dean. Success.

But then Dean cleared his throat. "I don't… I don't hate fags. Gay people, I mean."

Castiel sighed inwardly, but outwardly he simply nodded, his eyes still on his computer.

Dean fidgeted in his chair. "And I don't hate you." He gave a half-hearted chuckle. "I really tried, but I don't."

Castiel froze. He swiveled his chair around. "Why would you _try_ to hate me?" he asked, incredulous.

Dean scratched the back of his neck. "It's kind of a long story, but… I didn't – I never thought you'd take it so personal. You've got such a big class. Figured I'd be another brick in the wall."

"Well, you were wrong," Castiel said. "I've never noticed you more."

Dean's face went slightly red, and he said, "Yeah?"

"Yes," Castiel answered curtly. "You've been extremely distracting."

Dean went even redder, and he looked at the floor.

"Hatred is a corrosive thing, Dean." Castiel spoke carefully, trying not to let his hurt bleed through. "It's toxic. I may be a professor, but I'm a human being, and to be hated –" He cleared his throat, swallowed. "It's painful. Even from a stranger."

Dean nodded, still looking at the floor, and folded his test.

Castiel sighed. "I don't know why you'd want to hate me, but I'm asking you now to stop. Or I _will_ drop you from the class."

Dean stood up, and when he looked up at Castiel, his face was unreadable and blank. He gave a quick nod. "Don't worry," he said. "I won't be any more trouble."

"Thank you," Castiel replied.

The boy walked to the doorway, and then hesitated. "Just forget I ever happened," he said.

And with that he walked out of the office, leaving Castiel gazing at the chair he'd sat in, wondering what on earth had been going on in his head.

From that day on, Dean was a model student in class – attentive, neutral-faced, taking copious notes. As soon as the semester ended, his face was moved to some calm corridor in Castiel's mind reserved for former students, where it was left to fade and gather dust until it quietly dissolved completely.

Until twelve years later.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _I should just mention, in case it isn't clear in this chapter, that Castiel does not work at the same university that he earned his graduate degree. They actually discourage teaching at the same place you studied, as a rule. That is all._

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><p>Castiel sat alone at one of the classier bars in town, nursing a glass of scotch and slowly sinking into self-pity. He had the phone number of a beautiful woman on a napkin in his pocket and never in his life had he felt more alone, more abnormal, more <em>defective <em>than tonight.

He sighed heavily.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked someone behind him.

"A pint of whatever's on tap, thanks." The man sat down on a stool to Castiel's right, flashing a brief smile at the bartender.

He was a striking man, Castiel noticed; round green-hazel eyes, angular chin, lean but not skinny. His dark suit was tightly fitted, accenting his figure and giving him that ambitious corporate sheen. Something about him suggested both smooth and sharp, like a curved blade.

Castiel straightened up a little.

The man reached up and loosened his tie with his left hand. A silver wedding band on his finger caught the light.

Castiel slouched back over his glass and sighed again.

The man glanced over, eyeing Castiel and his drink. "Bad day, huh?"

"Bad year," Castiel mumbled. "I'm getting old."

The bartender handed the man his pint, and the man traded him with a credit card, his eyes darting back to Castiel all the while. "You don't look it."

Castiel smiled softly. "Maybe not. But I feel it." He rubbed the rim of the glass with his thumb. "Which perhaps is worse."

The man nodded slowly, and took a drink of his beer. He grimaced. "Ugh. Miller."

"Why did you order it?" Castiel asked.

The man chuckled and set his pint on the bar. "I guess… I feel old too. I used to drink this stuff like water back in the day. Thought maybe it'd bring back my, uh… youthful vigor." He looked back to Castiel, then paused, his mouth silently forming a hesitant word and then reconsidering. Finally he said, "Have we – have we met before?"

Castiel frowned. "I don't think so…." And yet something about the man was familiar, déjà vu, tickling at the back of his mind and under his tongue. "Perhaps we've seen each other around town."

The man shook his head and took another swig of beer. "I'm not from around here, just passing through. I must be thinkin' of someone else."

Castiel nodded.

They drank in silence while the live jazz band upstairs slid into something slow and smoky, the melancholy trumpet and the laconic, quiet piano accented by the occasional wire brush sliding over the hi-hat; the understated string bass thrummed deep underneath. Then the rich, coarse saxophone began to play and the music began to smolder, burning dark heat like a coal.

The man glanced sidelong once more at Castiel, then back into his beer. His finger tapped ever so slightly along the side of the glass, in time to the slow beat.

Something about him. Castiel was more and more certain they'd once met.

"What has you feeling old tonight?" Castiel asked him. "You can't even be thirty."

The man looked up with a face a little too startled, a little too much false surprise, as though he had forgotten Castiel's presence. "Huh? Oh. Right." He chuckled and rubbed his hand across his mouth. "Actually, I'm thirty-two. And I'm starting to realize I'm not the kid I used to be. You wake up, and your back aches. Your joints creak."

Castiel smiled. "Ah, yes, the joints. They are persistent… but for me it's my students. Every year they get younger and younger."

The man turned more towards him, leaning his elbow on the bar. "That what you do for a living? You teach?"

Castiel nodded. "And you? Are you in town on business?"

The man paused a moment, then said, "Yeah. I travel a lot through my job. I work for a company that insures other companies, and I'm the lucky one who gets to visit them all."

"That must be difficult," Castiel said. "Being away from your wife so often."

The man's eyes flickered to his wedding ring. "It is," he admitted. "It can be rough on us, but we manage. We have a kid, too, about ten and… I miss him like crazy." He scratched the back of his neck. "To be honest, that's why I came out tonight. To be around people instead of sitting in an empty motel room. I was so lonely I couldn't stand it anymore."

Something small and jagged caught in Castiel's throat, and he blurted out, "That makes two of us."

The man looked back at him, his sharp green eyes piercing through Castiel and seeing everything he hadn't meant to admit.

Castiel flushed.

After a moment of consideration, the man held his hand out. "I'm Dean, by the way."

Castiel took his hand and shook it. "Castiel."

Dean's eyes widened. He froze, his hand still clasped around Castiel's.

Castiel blinked and stared back.

"Castiel Novak," Dean said, low and amazed. Then he stood up and and grinned and exclaimed, "Holy fuckin' crap. It's you! What are the fucking chances – Jesus, I know you because you were my prof!"

"You were my student?" Castiel asked, confused. "When?"

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't try and remember, I was a terrible student. Let me buy you a drink!"

Castiel tried anyway. _Dean, Dean, Dean…_

Dean Winchester.

His student. His former student, the hateful one, the one he had only just two weeks ago thought of idly for the first time in years, while shaving, peering at his chin in the mirror, trying to remember his name, wondering what had become of the boy, why he had acted so strangely –

Standing right in front of him.

The same boy. Not a boy anymore – a man. In every way a man. Oh, he still sported the same delicate features and the lightest dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose but he was – older, more solid, less lean and hungry and more grounded. Creases around his mouth, his eyes, that hadn't been there before, the angle of his shoulders still bearing that latent violent instinct and there – there, in his eyes, those were the same eyes. The very same.

Castiel's former student, and yet not him at all, here in the flesh twelve years later.

So he let him buy him a drink.

…..

Somehow they ended up back in Dean's hotel room. Castiel vaguely remembered Dean citing the price of drinks at the bar and the bottle of whiskey back in his room, and he kept saying, "It's in the expense account, a travel expense, I always travel with a little Johnnie Walker." So they sat in his room and drank and talked.

They talked for hours.

"You know, I've always thought that you were a little strange for a psychologist," Dean told him, leaning forward in his chair onto his knees. "For somebody who studies human behavior, I mean, you're…"

Castiel sighed, his legs splayed out in front of him on the floor, his back against the foot of the bed. "I've never fit in. Belonged. Even in my own family, I…. Maybe that's why I'm so fascinated by people." He took a burning sip, letting the heat bloom in his chest, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "I can pretend, for a short while. I know how to fake it. But it's… difficult. I'm just different. I was raised differently." He smiled to himself. "Or maybe I was born different. Nature or nurture…"

Dean leaned forward even farther, holding his tumbler from the top, the ice clinking against the glass. "See, my family was different too. And truth be told, I'm pretty fucked up. But I've always, on the outside – I've always blended in, one of the crowd. Like a chameleon. I can pull off ordinary perfectly. It's fake, but it's damn near perfect."

Castiel laughed.

"What?" Dean asked, a smile tugging at his mouth, his eyes dancing.

"You're wrong," Castiel said, still chuckling. "You're very wrong."

His brow wrinkled, and he blinked quickly. "What?"

"You are no chameleon," Castiel told him, pointing accusatorily with his glass. "You are like – a brightly colored bird in a flock of crows. The eye is drawn to you. You stand out."

Dean frowned. "You saying I'm some kind of misfit?"

"I'm saying…" Castiel slowed the words down, deliberate, as he looked up into Dean's eyes – "No one would _ever_ mistake you for ordinary."

Dean gazed back, eyes wide, the wrinkle in his brow smoothing out, and he slowly closed his mouth and swallowed.

Castiel closed his eyes and his mind swam, confused and chaotic, the room growing hot and stifling. He set his glass on the floor and pulled off his tie, unbuttoned his collar. "I, however, am merely odd," he said, bitterness sliding in under his tongue. "And tonight, since I'm feeling petty, I'll blame it on my father."

Dean chuckled low and quiet. "You too? What's your dad like?"

Castiel picked up his tumbler and took another drink, his hands gripping the glass a little too tightly. "Very conservative. Very military. Religious fanatic. I was raised like I was in the army; my brothers and I weren't siblings, we were a garrison." He raised his glass and sang sarcastically, "_Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war…_"

Dean stood up, wide-eyed with amazement. "Get the fuck out. You too?" He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the floor in his excitement. "I mean, I was spared the Sunday school, but my dad – we were his little _Marines_. He'd, he'd _train_ us, pounded the lessons into our brains like boot camp –"

"And they never leave you." Castiel smiled bitterly. "You find yourself locating the exits of every room –"

"Sizing up everyone you meet," Dean cut in, "knowing instantly how long it would take to disarm them –"

" – to disable them –"

" – and how many witnesses you'd have –"

" – and how long you'd have to run."

They stopped and stared at each other.

They burst out laughing.

They couldn't stop. Castiel found himself curled on his side on the floor, his entire body shaking, wheezing. Dean clutched the seat of his chair and asked the room, in between bouts of hysterical laughter, "What are the chances? I mean, what are the fucking chances?" Castiel squeezed his eyes shut and laughed so hard it was silent, and gasped for air, and realized he was much more drunk than he'd intended to be.

Eventually their spasms died down into smaller high sighing noises, and Dean wiped his eyes and Castiel pushed himself up. They both sat on the floor now, red-faced and worn.

Dean grinned at Cas. "Man, that felt good." His eyes shone brightly, and he pressed his hand against his side and winced comically. "But I think I pulled something."

Castiel watched him, and felt the strangest urge to reach out and press his hand over Dean's. _Yes. You probably did. We'll hold it here._

He forced it down, and instead said, "You haven't told me why yet."

Dean frowned. "Huh?"

"When you were my student." Castiel clasped his hands together. "You haven't told me why you acted the way you did then, or why you're doing this tonight. You seemed averse to me before, but you like me well enough now."

Dean froze. "You – you remember that?"

Castiel nodded.

He cracked an uneasy half-smile. "I guess I made an impression, huh?"

"Are you going to explain?" Castiel asked.

Dean looked at his fingernails, picking at them for a moment. Finally, he cleared his throat. "Okay, so here's the thing. Back in college…"

Castiel waited patiently.

Color rose on Dean's cheeks, and he looked upward at the ceiling. "Man, I had the biggest crush on you."

Castiel's jaw physically dropped.

"And I had absolutely no clue what to do about it." Dean admitted, his cheeks even redder. "I was just trying to cope."

"Me?" It was all Castiel could manage to ask. "On me?"

Dean nodded slowly, looking back down at his fingernails. "At first it was okay, because I just told myself that anything between us was completely out of the question. You were my professor, and probably straight. But then that one day you were lecturing about orientation and something you said – I don't know, I could just _tell_ you were gay. But I had to know, so I asked, and…" He shrugged. "You confirmed it. And suddenly it was all I could think about. That it was _possible_. So I tried to hate you, just to get over you."

"The fact that you were my student wasn't deterrence enough?" Castiel demanded.

Dean smirked. "Dude. The teacher fantasy is older than time itself."

Castiel blanched.

"And holy crap, when you called me into your office…" Dean shook his head. "It was like the universe was taunting me." He dropped his voice to a low growl, clearly aping the way Castiel sounded. "_You've been extremely distracting. I've never noticed you more. _Like lines out of a freaking porno."

Castiel reddened. "I… had no idea."

"Did you really think I hated you?" he asked, chuckling. "No, wait, you thought I was homophobic. I must've been a real pain in the ass."

Castiel pursed his lips. "I was frightened by you."

Dean stopped chuckling.

"I was afraid that… you were going to do something violent." Castiel reached for his glass and studied its contents. "That you were going to lash out at me. So I took preventative measures."

"Jesus," Dean said, subdued. "I'm sorry."

Castiel shook his head. "It's alright."

"No, really," he insisted. "I'm sorry for how I acted. It was immature and stupid. But… I didn't know. I was young back then."

"Yes," Castiel agreed. "We both were." He took a drink. "It was a long time ago."

They sat quietly on the faded floral carpeting in the dim hotel room, the years between them weighing down on their bodies. Castiel ran his index finger along a the petals of a printed crocus, trying to analyze the nubby berber texture and only coming up with distracted thoughts of clocks winding down and grains of sand sliding over glass.

"My brother Sam…" Dean spoke in a low voice, almost a confession. "He tells me that I'm wasting my life in insurance. The pay is great, but the work sucks, and… He thinks I should go home to Lisa and Ben."

Castiel looked up at Dean.

Dean was watching him, intent, waiting. _For an answer_, Castiel realized.

He chose his words carefully. "I think your brother is right."

Dean sat up a little, his face unreadable.

"I don't know the particulars of your situation," Castiel continued. "So I can't know for certain what you should choose. But I know that one of the biggest – regrets I have in life is… I don't have a family." He looked Dean in the eye, trying to make sure he understood, and said much more forcefully than he meant to, "You are incredibly privileged. Don't _waste _that privilege."

And Dean's mouth tightened and he nodded, and leaned forward, and he gazed back at Castiel in a way that – his eyes were so – so – Castiel thought that – oh fuck, he was drunk, he was making things up, he didn't know what he thought but Dean leaned forward and in the same movement he put his hand to Castiel's arm, and something fast and shivering flared up in Castiel and in that moment he thought Dean was about to do something very very stupid.

But he stopped short.

He grasped Castiel's arm, and said, "Thank you."

Castiel answered softly, "You're welcome."

Dean's eyes glanced down to Castiel's mouth, and back to his eyes. "I needed someone to say that."

Castiel nodded. "I understand."

Dean gazed at him for a beat longer, his hand still firm on Castiel's arm. Then he released him, and asked, "Want some more whiskey?"

They talked for a couple more hours, sipping a little slower on their drinks, laughing together about the strangest things. Castiel slipped into an oddly comfortable warmth with him, and yet… every so often they would catch each other's eyes, and they would trail off into a momentary silence, until one of them would finally look away. And sometimes even after Dean would look away, Castiel would keep looking, wanting to burn his face into his memory, so that twelve years later if they met again he would know him instantly by the curvature of his nose or the profile of his chin.

_He had a crush on me_, Castiel remembered more than once. It pleased him every time.

But eventually it grew very late, and exhaustion began to tug at Castiel's limbs, and he knew if he didn't leave soon he would fall asleep where he sat. He forced himself to stand up and brush himself off, thank Dean for the whiskey, tell him how much he'd enjoyed their conversation. Dean in turn stood up as well and thanked him for keeping him company, and apologized for keeping him out so late.

"It's no problem," Castiel assured him, sliding on his jacket. "There's no one waiting up for me."

Dean watched him, and set his glass down on the desk.

"And it's not a school night," he continued, trying to ignore the way he could feel Dean's gaze on his skin. "So there's no need to apologize."

"Lemme ask you something. I'm just curious." Dean's voice was rough and casual, the casual of a poker game. "If you had known how I felt back then…"

Castiel stopped, his back to Dean.

"… would I have had a chance with you?"

Castiel took a deep breath and turned around. "A decade ago? You were barely out of your teens. Any attraction would have been superseded by my ethics. I was your professor."

Dean licked his lips and glanced down at the floor. Then he raised his eyes back up to Castiel's and asked, "And now?"

Castiel could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

"You're married," he said quietly.

Dean stepped forward, wary and deliberate. "But if I wasn't."

Castiel swallowed against the hard lump in his throat, and clenched his hands. "Yes." He turned to leave.

"Wait."

Castiel rested his hand on the doorknob.

"I just want you to know that – I don't want you to think that – I – I –" Dean paused, struggling with the words. "I'm not suggesting anything. At all. But if – if things were different, I'd be asking you to stay right now."

Castiel closed his eyes. "But they're not."

Dean was silent.

Castiel turned the knob.

"You know, this is probably the last time we'll ever see each other." Dean's tone was light and pained at the same time. "I mean, what are the chances of us ever meeting again?"

Castiel looked back at him one last time, and said, "Then goodbye, Dean. I wish you the best of luck."

Dean stepped toward him, and then stopped, rooted in the spot. His mouth twisted painfully downward, and he gazed at him for a long moment.

Then Castiel smiled bitterly, and said, "Just forget I ever happened."

And he turned the knob and left before he could change his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _WELL. My wonderful, beautiful bobwhites, you were all QUITE upset by the way I left things in the previous chapter. I felt very badly about this. Soooo, I wrote you another one to make things a little better. It may not be what you expected, but at least it should (should?) make you happy, and I do think it's the only possible/logical continuation of the story. If you don't like it, just make believe that the story ends with Ch. 2, and this is just some crazy rambling that has absolutely nothing to do with it. As usual, please review and let me know what you think! _

_Seriously. Please review. Otherwise I will cry. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Sometimes life surprises you.<p>

It was a few days after Christmas, just after dark, and Castiel was walking home over the bridge, his scarf wrapped tightly around his face and his hands jammed in his pockets. And then soft white snowflakes began to fall from the dark sky, orange streetlights casting them into relief, disappearing into the choppy black water below.

Castiel stopped, and watched the snowflakes fall for awhile. He stared up at the sky, and then slowly lowered his gaze to the water, resting his hands on the rail, considering…

"Hey! Hey there!"

Castiel spun around.

A man was jogging towards him, in a black wool coat and a knit hat. As he came closer, Castiel realized he was a bartender from Ramone's, his usual place. The one who usually served him on Friday nights, tall with a thin nose and olive skin.

"Hi there, buddy," the bartender said. He slowed to stop by Castiel and wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his hands under his armpits. "It's freezing out here! What're you doing?"

"I just… stopped," Castiel answered, a little unnerved by his familiarity. "The snow is beautiful tonight."

"Novak, right?" The bartender stuck out his hand. "I'm David."

He shook his hand, eyeing the armpit it had come from and thankful he was wearing gloves. "You can call me Castiel."

"Castiel," David repeated. "Cool." He paused a moment, watching him. "Everything alright, Castiel?"

"Yes," Castiel answered warily.

"Sooo, uh…" He rocked back on his heels. "You weren't gonna… jump, or anything."

Castiel frowned. "Of course not."

"Good!" David blurted. "Great!" Then he laughed self-consciously. "Sorry, I must sound crazy, it's just – you stopped, and you were looking, and… statistically speaking, you know, it's the holidays –"

"I'm a psychology professor," Castiel informed him. "I know the statistics."

David nodded, and tucked his hands farther. "Fair enough. You were just looking down over the edge, and you looked like maybe…" He trailed off, and looked at the ground. "Anyway, you had me worried there for a minute." He looked back up at Castiel, and Castiel noticed he had light brown eyes, warm and friendly. "Where you headed?"

"Home," Castiel said. "To an empty house. With a dead Christmas tree I forgot to water and a present I bought myself."

David laughed in disbelief. "Alllllrighty, there is absolutely _no_ way I'm leaving you alone on this bridge," he replied, only half-joking.

"We could walk together," Castiel offered.

"Sounds good." David stepped forward alongside him. "I'm going this way anyway."

They walked along silently, the snow falling down in thick sheets, glistening on their shoulders and dusting their hair.

"So you're a professor?" David asked.

Castiel nodded.

"I'm a bartender," he added.

Castiel smiled. "I've noticed."

"This is a really long bridge," David observed.

"That's true," Castiel agreed.

He pursed his lips. "How offended would you be if I hit on you right now?"

Castiel stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"Like on a scale of one to ten," he explained, turning to him. "One being flattered and ten being… you push me off the bridge."

"I think I would be… not so much offended as confused," Castiel said, struggling to find the right words. "Do you often flirt with strangers you think are suicidal?"

"We're not _strangers_," David replied, blushing a little – but then maybe it was just the cold reddening his cheeks. "We just introduced ourselves, remember? And from your response, I'm gonna guess a seven. So that's a no go. It's okay, I kinda figured you were straight anyway. It's no big deal."

They walked on silently in the dark.

"I'm not straight," Castiel said.

David glanced at him. "What?"

"I'm not straight," he repeated. "I'm gay."

"Oh," David said. "So you've got a boyfriend? A really neglectful boyfriend?"

Castiel smiled wryly. "No."

"Oh." David's voice dropped. "So it's just me."

"No, it's just that I –" Castiel stopped walking, and yanked his coat tight in frustration. "I don't have anything against you, I simply don't understand why you're doing this! You didn't need to stop to talk to me. I don't even know you."

David had a strange look on this face, and he was looking at Castiel, and the wind blew a strand of his dark brown hair across his forehead. "You don't understand why a guy would be nice to you?"

Castiel felt heat rise in his cheeks, and he looked away, across the water.

"Look, Castiel…" David spoke slowly, carefully. "I see you come in a lot, and… you're always by yourself. At first I thought it was to pick up women, but then I started to see that no matter how many came over to you, you never left with them. And a part of me hoped, that… maybe I'd have a chance…" He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "You're right, I don't know you. But I'd like to get to know you. It doesn't have to be all…" He gestured vaguely between the two of them. "You know. It can be casual. I'm not trying to be a creep here, it's just that this is the first time I've ever run into you off the clock, and I thought… Why the hell not?"

Castiel shivered and shoved his hands further in his pockets. "David, I am… a difficult person. I'm not like everybody else, I don't know _how_ to be like everyone else. I'm going to disappoint your expectations. But…." His throat tightened, and he lowered his voice. "If you still want to know me, I would like to have a friend."

And slowly, softly, David smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I'd like that too."

…..

Three years later, Castiel sat in the Indianapolis International airport, a small suitcase and a duffel bag at his feet. Only a few days until Thanksgiving, and the place was crowded as a market street and twice as noisy. Infants squalling, little plastic wheels squeaking, thousands of fellow travelers talking on cellphones and consulting their tickets and complaining about TSA. Castiel sat back in his molded plastic seat and closed his eyes, losing himself in a sea of unintelligible noise.

"Castiel?"

He opened his eyes.

Standing there, in a leather jacket and t-shirt, was Dean Winchester.

Castiel blinked, and sat up. "Dean?"

A little behind him stood a dark-haired woman and a distracted teen, who was busily texting someone on his phone. "I cannot believe this," Dean said, just staring at Castiel. "It is one small freaking world."

"This must be your family," Castiel said, smiling at the other two.

"Yeah – right, of course!" Dean shook his head and put his hand to the woman's elbow. "This is my wife, Lisa, and our son, Ben. Lisa, Ben, this is Castiel Novak."

"Nice to meet you," Lisa said, offering him a brilliant wide smile and her hand. "How do you and Dean know each other?"

Castiel shook her hand. "I was his professor once."

"And then we ran into each other a few years back," Dean interjected. "Out in Oregon, one night at the bar. Back in my insurance days."

Castiel raised his eyebrows.

"I quit insurance," Dean informed him. "I work in construction management now. Closer to home."

"I see." Castiel felt strangely happy to hear it, and he smiled again. "Are you flying for the holidays?"

"Yes," he muttered. His mouth twisted, and his face went a little queasy. "Because according to these two, South Dakota is too far to drive."

Lisa rolled her eyes and patted him on the shoulder. "It is, Dean. It really is."

"It definitely is," Ben confirmed, still texting.

"_Any_way," Dean pointedly continued, "what about you? What are you doing in Indiana?"

Castiel took a deep breath. "Well –"

"Hey Cas, did you want a bagel or a muffin?" David called as he strode back towards Cas from the Starbucks. "I couldn't remember, so I got you –" He stopped, and looked at the group. "Oh. Sorry! Didn't mean to barge in."

Castiel stood up and gestured to David. "This is my partner David. And we're flying to spend Thanksgiving with his sister in Vermont. This is just a layover."

And Dean looked at Castiel then, really looked at him, straight in the eyes, and he smiled so sincerely that Castiel felt it in his bones. "That's great. That's really great. I hear Vermont is beautiful this time of year."

"Hey Dean?" Ben said, looking up from his phone for the first time. "We have ten minutes before our flight starts boarding."

"Crap. Ahh…" Dean checked his own phone. "He's right, we gotta go, I wish we could stay and chit-chat –"

"That's alright," Castiel assured him. "It was nice to meet you Lisa, Ben."

"Likewise," Lisa replied, flashing him another smile.

"Uh-huh," Ben mumbled.

"Goodbye, Castiel," Dean said, squeezing him by the hand. "Take care, alright?"

Castiel squeezed back. "I will."

And Dean held on for a second longer, and then said quickly, "I didn't forget you."

Then the three of them walked briskly off towards their gate, blending in with the herd of other hurried passengers. Castiel watched them until he lost track, and then he sat back down in his plastic chair.

David sat down next to him and handed him a bagel. "Who were they?"

Castiel ripped a piece off the bagel and ate it. "An acquaintaince and his family."

"Oh." David took a bite out of his muffin. "Did you see his cheekbones? Those are Johnny Depp-level cheekbones."

Castiel pulled off another chunk of bagel and ate it. "What about my cheekbones?"

David shrugged and took a big bite. With a full mouth, he said, "Meh."

Castiel frowned. "Meh?"

David swallowed his food. "Yeah, Cas, I didn't want to say anything, but you're kinda hideous. Super hideous, actually. I've faked being wildly attracted to you this whole time to keep from hurting your feelings."

Castiel glared at him. "You're making fun of me."

"No," he corrected, "that was teasing. _Now_ I'm making fun of you." And he sat up stiffly in his chair, ripped off a tiny piece of his muffin, popped it in his mouth and glowered in a way Castiel knew was supposed to represent his own expression.

"Very funny," Castiel muttered, slumping into his seat and picking at his bagel.

They ate quietly for a minute.

"I was just joking, you know," David finally said.

Castiel nodded.

"I love you, Cas."

"I love you too," Castiel replied, still picking at his bagel.

"You're kind of ridiculously handsome," he said. "There's no way you don't know that. You're basically – the most handsome man I've ever known."

Castiel smiled. "Thank you. But flattery will get you nowhere."

"No, I mean it."

Castiel looked over at David.

He was gazing at Castiel with this odd expression, equal parts earnest and timid, and he smiled hesistantly and said, "Cas, this is probably terrible timing, but…"

Castiel waited patiently, his heartbeat picking up speed against his will.

"We've been dating for a long time, and… now you're coming to meet my sister, and…" David wiped his forehead with his hand, and Castiel saw his fingers trembling. "Shit, am I sweating? I think I'm sweating. Shit."

Castiel sat up in his seat. "Is everything alright, David?"

"I'm fine!" David answered, his voice jumping an octave. "It's just that – I – well, I was going to wait until Thanksgiving, but I don't want – I just realized that I don't want to even wait that long, so…" He took a deep breath. "Cas, you're pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me, and…"

Castiel accidentally started squeezing his bagel in his hands.

David gulped. "I love you so much, and I can't imagine trying to live without you, and so I figured, heck, why should I imagine that? Why can't I just – make sure you stick around forever –"

The bagel was crumpled to bits, and Castiel began to feel light-headed.

David's entire face was flushed red, and his voice cracked as he concluded, "So I was wondering. If you would. Marry me?"

Castiel reached out and grasped David's hands in his own. "Yes. David. Yes."

And David pulled him into his arms and kissed him desperately, right there in the middle of the noisy crowded airport, and a small child somewhere in the vicinity said, "Ewwwww!"

And Castiel had never been happier in his entire life.


End file.
